


We're all going to Hell anyway

by MediocreHuman



Category: Constantine (TV), DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bisexual John Constantine, Hurt/Comfort, John Constantine Being an Asshole, John Constantine Needs A Hug, John Has Issues, Self-Destruction, Self-Esteem Issues, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:27:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25542844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MediocreHuman/pseuds/MediocreHuman
Summary: John Constantine was tired. So, so tired.
Relationships: Chas Chandler & John Constantine, John Constantine & Astra Logue, John Constantine & Team Legends, John Constantine/Desmond (past)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 58





	We're all going to Hell anyway

Sometimes, in his line of work, you just get tired. So tired it feels like the weight of the world is on your shoulder. These days, he is always tired. Sometimes he gives in. Refuses to get out of bed, to open his eyes, to acknowledge the misery and destruction and smoke that clings to him like a second coat. He only allows himself these days when he knows no one is around. 

Any other time, he trudges forward, forcing himself up like a soldier marching into battle. In a way, he is. He arms himself with a mischievous grin and his sharp wit, not daring to let his guard down for even a moment. It was Chas moving about that woke him. Chas is packing. Oh. 

“Oh, uh, hey John” Any other day John would have mocked his friend's smooth speech. Today he was too tired. 

“Leaving?” Was all he could muster up the energy to spit out. Chas was looking increasingly uncomfortable. 

“Yeah, I figured it was time to spend some time with Geraldine you know? She’s not getting any younger and…” John knew what he wanted to say. What he was too kind, too stupid and caring to say outright. Their work was dangerous. John was dangerous. Yes Chas was his longest lasting friend but there was a reason for that. Chas had multiple lives. Eventually though, they would run out, and it would be his fault. Maybe it would be better if he didn’t come back. Or maybe if he had nothing to return to. With a silent grimace he shook those thoughts away.

“John?” Chas broke through the growing haze. “Are you feeling alright?” This. This question the exorcist could handle. He slapped on his usual grin, that he hadn’t realized he's allowed to slip off his face in the first place. That was when it all went downhill.

Honestly, he hadn’t been planning on picking a fight. Really. How was he supposed to know Chas was feeling a little sensitive about his wife lately? Okay maybe he had known but he couldn’t be blamed for the blowout. 

It had just felt so good, and he was so tired, and anger was so much easier then the void in his chest that seemed to draw in anything good in his life and smother it. 

Chas said not to expect him back. That was okay. He didn’t want to pretend to be okay anyway. He faintly wondered where Zed was before remembering he had chased her off a few days ago with a huge screaming match. Huh. So that was why Chas had been sneaking around when he first woke up. Must have been giving him “space”. A tired sigh escaped his lips. It was too early for this bullshit. (A brief glance at a clock revealed it was actually 2 in the afternoon but same thing) Trudging back to his room he dropped bonelessly onto his covers, too tired to continue standing. It was there that he lay, quiet, almost too quiet. It was times like these that he was almost grateful for the screams of the damned, for at least he never had to drown in the silence of a too empty house.

Waking up was blurry. His head hurt. He was tired. He wanted this to be over. He remembers, remembered? Little bottles rattling with pills, orange, white, blue, he doesn’t remember the colors. There were multiple. It didn’t stop the hurt. He ended up at a bar. How he did he wasn’t sure, be it magic or voodoo or a fucking cab. It didn’t matter. A small voice that sounded suspiciously like Chas’s whispered worryingly about the effects of mixing G-d knows what type of pills with alcohol. He drowned out that voice with some truly terrible vodka and flirtatious words aimed at some particularly stupid looking rednecks. 

The fight hurt but not as much as he wanted it to. He got out, though he definitely wasn't unscathed. Maybe the concussion was why he had the truly terrible, terrible, TERRIBLE idea to call Chas that night. He just felt terrible, fire in your gut, body aching, world spinning kind of terrible. 

Chas didn’t pick up so he left a voicemail. He might have been crying. He may have said something along the lines of he was sorry and everyone would be better off without ol’ Johnny in their lives. To be honest he couldn’t remember much. Just the wind in his coat and a scream of terror from somewhere vaguely below him. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, on that ledge. His whole body hurt and he was actively trying to avoid puking his guts up. He couldn’t remember why. Something about...something about wanting to stop hurting. He barely noticed when he was joined by a few others. Officers his mind supplied in an almost bored tone. He took a step forward. Watched how they all froze. 

Signed. He was tired. He was hurt. He wanted Chas. When the officers used his pause to grab him he barely noticed their bruising grips dragging him backwards. Or maybe it was just them grabbing already existing bruises. It was okay. He deserved it. The handcuffs might have been a bit much but he might have admitted to murdering a little girl at some point so maybe it was warranted. He just wanted home. He wanted the comfort he had always been denied as a child and in turn denied as he grew older. He wanted Chas, he wanted Natalie, Alex, Zed, Zatanna. Too bad they hell was the only destination meant for those who dared to associate with ol’ Johnny Constantine. 

The void in his chest grew, intermingling with the grief swirling in his gut, and all it took all his remaining will to keep himself from sobbing pitifully. If only his father could see him now. If only any of his plethora of enemies could see him. 

They were right. He was a killer, a nightmare walking, a surefire way to hell. The burning man who’s flames drew in awe struck eyes and left them blackened. 

He was the man on fire, cursed to wander the earth, leaving smoke and ashes and hellfire in his wake, unable to get attached without lighting someone ablaze and he was tired of it. Tired of it all.

**Author's Note:**

> John Constantine is a human disaster who possibly maybe wants to die. Just maybe.


End file.
